


Taste of Victory

by devilinthedetails



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alpha/Omega, Fondling, Kissing, M/M, NHL Playoffs, Oral Sex, Toronto Maple Leafs, blowjob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-17
Updated: 2017-04-17
Packaged: 2018-10-19 22:11:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10649079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devilinthedetails/pseuds/devilinthedetails
Summary: Auston and Mitch celebrate their first playoff win.





	Taste of Victory

**Author's Note:**

> This story is set after game two in the Maple Leafs series with the Washington Capitals.

When Mitch had dared to imagine what his first NHL playoff win might be like, he had not pictured it to be this way. It was probably stupid in keeping with the stereotype of most hockey players having pucks for brains, but he had envisioned wild celebration, and, yeah, there had been that uncontrollable elation—that thrill of triumph that couldn’t be denied—on the ice when they had dog-piled the fourth line after that goal finally got past Holtby in double overtime—but in the locker room their throats were too dry for much shouting and their muscles, limp as overcooked spaghetti, refused to do much more than slouch in their stalls. Mitch hadn’t even been able to muster the energy to shower, but fortunately he was too tired to notice his own stench, though the pheromones in his sweat were probably driving the Alphas on the team crazy. 

“We won.” Auston’s hoarse whisper in Mitch’s ear made him start, and Mitch wondered if the smell had drawn over his Alpha. The notion was strangely heady, or maybe that was just the sensation of victory on the biggest stage in hockey which made him feel higher than the Washington Monument—that oddly phallic tribute to America’s first president that they had passed on the bus en route to tonight’s showdown with the Caps. 

“Fuck.” Mitch glared around the towel he was using to mop his brow at Auston, whose tan cheeks were shining with mingled jubilation and exhaustion. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack?” 

“Do you have a heart for me to attack?” Auston teased, palm sliding down to rest over MItch’s chest, and Mitch knew that the sweat-drenched layer of Underarmor that was all there was between Auston’s skin and his own was so thin that Auston could feel every thud of Mitch’s beating heart. The thought stirred Mitch, making him feel uncomfortably tight—almost trapped—in the jockstrap he had been too drained to remove. How confident Auston was, especially when he touched Mitch, was something that would always arouse Mitch, something that he could never get accustomed to and didn’t want to, either, because he wanted every moment with Auston to be a miracle. 

“We could play doctor, and you could find out,” suggested Mitch, not sure if his ragged voice was from Auston’s touch or from the intensity of a playoff double overtime game or an intoxicating cocktail of both. He nudged his chest against Auston’s hand, so that Auston could feel how hard and ready his nipples were, how much they craved the stimulation that only Auston could offer. 

“I don’t want to play doctor.” Auston’s fingers tickled a trail along Mitch’s sticky with sweat collarbone and arms. Auston clasped his strong hands so tightly around Mitch’s slender wrists that they cut off his circulation like handcuffs, making his fingertips tingle from the lack of blood or maybe just the thrill of being held so firmly by his Alpha. The blood that couldn’t flow into his fingertips seemed to have swelled into his head, pounding against his eardrums in a loud tattoo that almost drowned out Auston’s next words. “I want to celebrate.” 

Mitch was breathless, and not just from the double overtime that had felt like it would stretch into infinity, so it was a relief when Auston continued, lifting the burden of the necessity of speech from Mitch, “We won.” 

He tugged on Mitch’s wrists so fiercely that Mitch feared dislocating a shoulder or two—and wouldn’t that be a fun upper body issue to explain to the team doctors and Babs—and dragged Mitch out into the corridor. 

Around a corner, he could hear his teammates—Mo and Andersen, if he could identify the tones right when his body and brain seemed to have been shut off at some point back in the first overtime, which paradoxically felt like it had taken place a century and a second ago—answering questions for the media. Grateful that the spotlight wasn’t on him or Auston tonight, he let Auston pull him into an equipment closet. 

The room was dark and dusty, but they were reluctant to risk discovery by switching on the overhead light. This was a moment that neither one of them wanted interrupted. 

“This feels so surreal.” Auston’s mouth brushed against Mitch’s, and all Mitch could taste was sweat, his own mixing with Auston’s and making his lips sting in a pain that felt wonderful—like the burn in muscles after winning a playoff game. 

“I never thought I’d be smooching you in an equipment closet, either, so that makes two of us.” Mitch’s quip came out as a gasp that was quickly strangled by Auston intensifying the kiss, his tongue slipping like a snake through Mitch’s pursed lips to glide along Mitch’s. 

“Not what I meant.” Auston’s fingers pinched Mitch’s erect nipple. As Mitch moaned, he went on, now twisting Mitch’s nipples, “I meant winning a playoff game.” 

“Mmm.” Mitch emitted an incoherent noise as Auston’s hands abandoned his nipples and drifted down to his waist, where Auston’s stroking thumbs reminded him that his lower body was clad only in socks soaked with sweat and a jockstrap straining under the weight and size of a surging erection. “This is exciting.” 

“I can tell just by looking at you that you’re excited.” Auston’s pant in Mitch’s ear was followed by a nip that caused Mitch to yelp and collapse against a musty duffel bag hanging from a hook on the wall. Auston cupped Mitch’s jock and rubbed up and down, starting slow but rising to a fever pitch that had Mitch thrashing against the duffel bag like a fish out of water, too breathless to beg for the ecstasy that could only be found in total release. “You look so excited you could burst.” 

“Take off my jock, and I will.” Mitch was proud of himself for managing a complete sentence in such a sensual circumstance. 

“Not yet.” Auston’s tone said more clearly than words that he was the Alpha, and he would give the orders, not Mitch the Omega. “Maybe never if you don’t ask nicely.” 

“But we won.” Mitch puckered his lips into a pout he knew Auston found irresistable. 

“Don’t pout.” Auston gave a chiding nibble to Mitch’s earlobe. “You should be enjoying the taste of victory.” 

“The taste of victory?” Mitch squirmed as the tension in his jock reached unbearable levels from Auston’s deft ministrations. Auston definitely was a master stickhandler. “What would that be?” 

“Me.” Auston tangled his fingers in Mitch’s mussed hair and guided him toward the bulge in the crotch of Auston’s gym shorts. 

Since it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out what Auston wanted, Mitch got to his knees—the cold tiles feeling strangely soothing against his flaming kneecaps—and yanked down Auston’s shorts and briefs, exposing a thrusting dick, which Mitch swallowed easily. Auston was slick and electric as an eel in Mitch’s mouth and tasted like seawater. 

“How does victory taste?” Auston cradled Mitch’s chin, and Mitch felt more precious than any award even a glittering Stanley Cup. 

“Like salt.” Mitch buried Auston deep into his throat and hoped that this tryst in a dusty closet could last forever. “Like you.”


End file.
